It's Not Funny, But I Can't Stop Laughing
by aloxi
Summary: Spencer Shay, twenty-year-old artist by day, artist by night. Needs a car, a girlfriend, and some sense. Now the proud legal guardian of a small child. Which won't be that hard. Because he's cool like a cucumber. Ohm. As long as his dad doesn't sue him.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: So not mine.

a/n: So I know The Powers That Be (AKA creator of iCarly) has stated that Spencer started taking care of Carly when she was twelve... buuut I'd already started writing this and I liked it too much to pay attention to canon. ;) Just be Spongebob and use your imaginations! :D It'll be fun. Promise. Review if you like/don't like/have suggestions/critique. I'm not sure if I got Spencer's character right, so please let me know. Thanks, and enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter 1_

* * *

So, there was a small child on my lap.

This, just so you know, was strange for many reasons. In fact, it was strange for so very many reasons, I may just have to make a helpful list. They encourage the thought process, y'know, or so my fourth grade science teacher said. But I don't know why I even bothered to believe him about the list thing, since he totally crushed my Science Fair dreams by telling me it couldn't involve anything flammable. Did he not realize that my _presence _pretty much made anything flammable?

I rest my case.

Anyway. What was I saying? Oh, yeah… my super-duper list of Reasons Why Having a Small Child in my Lap is Very Strange, written and produced by Spencer Shay. Drum roll, please?

Reason Numero Uno: You would probably assume that it was _my _child. It wasn't. I promise. (I should also probably stop referring to Carly as 'it.' She did have a gender. Which was female, in case pronouns confused you.)

Reason Nombre Deux: I wasn't used to… holding children with my appendages. I was afraid she would, like, fall off and bust her head open and then Dad would sue me.

I would not put it past him.

Reason Zahl Drei: Carly's Barbie was shoved half-in my pocket, and its demon hands were poking my ribcage… demonically. This was both strange and uncomfortable. Why did she insist on carrying around a Barbie doll, anyway? It was so creepy looking. I just wanted to make use of my flammable powers and burn it to a crisp.

Heeey, that kinda made it sound like I was a superhero… _Flammable Man!_ Able to set fire to things and… and, um… _and_ look awesomely handsome while doing it!

Or flammable-y handsome. Whichever.

Reason Numero Quattro: Women kept giving me sympathetic looks. Okay, it might've had something to do with the fact that Carly had her Sad Face™ on (why yes, I have trademarked Car-lay's sad face. Problemo?), and that she wouldn't look anywhere except out the window behind us. I kept trying to make her giggle, you know, with my Flammable Man powers— they extend to making small children laugh. No chiz. Except it wasn't exactly working. Aw, Carls. I should seriously buy her some ice cream whenever we get to our stop.

Which reminded me… I needed a car. Desperately. I hadn't thought about it for that entire list thingy, and, while impressive, this was also scary. Socko threatened to punch me in the face if I kept talking about needing a car, but…

I totally needed a car.

Reason Nummer Vijf: I saved the strangest for last. It's like the best for last, only, um, strange. Anyway, see, the strangest/weirdest/zaniest/bizarre-st part about having a small child taking up space in my lap is that… well, she's kind of _supposed _to. 'Cause it's not good for little girls to wander around on a city bus without their legal guardians.

Yeah. Legal guardian. I said it.

I know what you're thinking. No, seriously, I do. It probably amounts to something like, _"Whaaat? No chiz. Get outta here. Spencer, did you hit yourself in the head with an electric drill again?" _

…For the record, that last part has a good explanation. Really.

But that's not the point! Electronic tools do not have anything to do with the fact that I pretty much _own _the child sitting on me right now and _wow_ does that sound inappropriate.

Ahem. That last thought sounded pretty freaked out, didn't it? Well, that just goes to show my awesomely-awesome-fills-you-with-awe acting skills. Because I'm not freaked out. Why would I be freaked out? It's not like I'm some kinda unmarried guy raising a kid in an apartment paid for by my Colonel of a dad 'cause my mom chose a really inconvenient time to _run off_ and scare Carly out of her tiny little impressionable mind.

I'm not freaked. I'm cool. Cool like a cucumber. Ohm.

Do cucumbers go 'ohm'?

"…Spencer?"

Oh look, distraction. I looked down at Carly, who was blinking up at me, and I couldn't help but wince a little at the braid in her hair I'd tried to do this morning when she asked. Thaaat would be fun to untangle. I didn't… do braids very well… "Yeah, kiddo?"

She frowned, and then stuck her thumb in her mouth. Aw, _man. _She hadn't done that in forever, not since Dad first got deployed. Talking around her thumb, Carly mumbled, "I want Mom."

…And I am officially not a cucumber any more.

Not even one that goes 'ohm.'

I fumbled around in my brain trying to come up with an answer to that. How _did _you answer that? Did I even _have _to answer, since it was more of a statement than a question? Ah, small children confuse me!

But luckily for me, I didn't have to think about it much longer (if Socko were here, he would have to insert something like, "Or your brain would explode." Ha ha, Socksey. _So_ funny). That would be because the bus we were riding on due to my car-lacking-ness screeched to a stop, and the very burly driver yelled, "Get _off!_"

It's so hard to find good civil servants these days.

"Heeey Carly let's go!" I said in a rush, stood up, transferred her clumsily to my hip, and then tripped over a lady's handbag. Smoooooth moves, Spencer Shay.

"Yeah, um, sorry about that," I told the very bleached-blonde woman, who just stared at me. I get that a lot. Then the bus driver glared at me so hard that if he were a villain in a comic book, I would be a pile of formless matter oozing around on the floor right now, so I thought it might be wise to actually leave the bus area. Carly clenched her fingers in my shoulders as I carried her off, her demon Barbie barely clinging to my pocket.

If it fell, I was _so_ not stopping to pick it up.

Take that, Barbie.

"I'm hungry," Carly told me, while I jostled my way past a hobo. What is it with this city and homeless vagabonds? The bus took off behind us with a lovely belch of exhaust, so I almost didn't hear her continue, "I want lunch."

"But you ate yesterday," I joked. Ah, no laugh. She just stared at me, knowing that she would get food anyway. Darn her smarts. "Okay. How 'bout some… ice cream!"

She didn't say anything. Dude, why is she not rejoicing? "…Ice cream!" I repeated.

Carly sighed and laid her head down on my neck. "Ice cream is for dessert, Spencer. I want lunch."

…She cannot be my sister.

"Car-lay!" I shrieked, my voice upping a pitch. Wow, that's embarrassing. Mental note: must not inform Socko of my occasional lapses in manliness. "Ice cream is good _any _time! Look—" I stopped, which was also convenient for me as we were at a crosswalk, and pointed cross the street. "That's The Ice Cream Palace! Not castle, not fortress, not even citadel, _palace. _Don't you wanna go?"

She stared at the violently-orange building for a second. "No. I want a peanut butter sandwich. Can I have a peanut butter sandwich? But no jelly, please."

What. Is. Wrong. With. This. Child.

The green-means-go sign blinked, which I took as my cue to cross the street and not get hit by a car. Did I even have any peanut butter? Did I even have any _bread?_

"Pit stop!" I yelled out loud. Carly winced; I patted her head in apology. I did that a lot with my last girlfriend until she threatened to punch me because it made her feel like a dog. Which would be why she was my last girlfriend, not my current girlfriend. I wheeled to the left, aiming for the shop I knew must have some kind of edible things inside. "We need more food. I'm kind of running out. Shopping adventure time!"

Carly didn't say anything. Okay, this is so not going well. Maybe I'm not enthusiastic enough? Perhaps a different inflection was in order. "Shopping adventure TIME!"

"I heard you," she said quietly. "Can we get milk, please? I have milk with my peanut-butter sandwiches."

"You healthy little thing, you." I frowned at the shop's door, which required the use of hands I was busy holding Carls with. Whatever, I needed my daily dose of ninja anyway. I raised my knee to press the handle and then kicked it the rest of the way in.

_Crash!_

"What is this?!" I yelped, hopping away from the door at the sound. Crashes are never good. "Who keeps stuff behind the _door?!_"

Carly leaned over, peering though the glass door that I'd let swing closed again in shock. "There's a man coming. He looks mad."

Uh-oh. I backed up, hiking Carls higher up on my hip. "Um, look Carls, it's time for a fun game. It's called Book It."

"Go go go!" Carly yelled. Oh yeah, we'd played that game before. A… few times. Oops. So, with a large, angry looking guy with a large amount of bulk on him started shaking his fist at me, I did what any sane twenty-year-old guy who was legally-guardian-ing his little sis would do with the glass door still between him and me.

I booked it.

Oh, Dad was _so _going to sue me.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I totally did not plan on updating so soon! But this just sort of... poured out of my. Like liquid. Anyway! xD Haha, thanks to you guys who reviewed; I'm glad you think I got Spencer's character right. Lets hope I can keep it up! :D Enjoy Chapter 2.

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_Chapter 2_

* * *

Thiiiis was not going well.

Okay, I guess it was going _all right. _I mean, Carly wasn't dead or crying or throwing up, so I must have done something right in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe. Hopefully. That was the problem with kids— they didn't _talk. _Or maybe that's just Carls. From what I remember of myself, I was pretty freaking hyper. All the time. Forever. And that was without sugar.

Mmm, sugar…

Anyway! Carls kind of just… sat. On the couch. Watching TV, really, really quietly. It was what she'd been doing since she got to my apartment. Our apartment, I mean. It was in the same building as my old one, but humongously-ginormously bigger. Dad was paying for it, obviously. I'm just a poor artist-man.

Carly's poor artist-man brother hopped himself over to her. And by that, I mean I went and sat by Carly on the couch. Hmm, maybe I should start referring to myself in the third person. It could be so cool. That's what spies do, don't they? Or maybe they just blow things up and make out with chicks.

I could go for that.

"Hey-hey-hey, Car-lay," I sang, nudging her shoulder. She smiled at me. Aw. I love her. More than a lot of things. Maybe not oxygen…

"Hi."

Is that it? Me, her poor artist-man brother, gets only a 'hi'? I am so offended. "Watcha watching?" I asked, attempting to connect with a six-year-old, which one would think would be easy considering I've been accused of having that mental state ever since I actually _was _six. But Carly, in case you lovely observant people haven't noticed, is female. This means her brain operates on an entire different, mystical level.

Even at six.

"Girly Cow," Carly said, pointing. "It's new."

Silence.

"Is it fuuunny?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

More silence.

"You want some lunch, kiddo?"

"Yeah."

Yet more silence.

"Whaddaya want?"

"Can I have some of the noodles we got yesterday, after that man almost hit you?"

"She speaks!" I yelled, pumping my fist in the air. "That was at least fifteen words. Good going!" I offered my palm for a high five. Carly gave one gladly, giggling. "Hey, he did not almost hit me!" I added as an afterthought.

"He was gonna," she pointed out.

"Nuh-uh."

"Yah-huh."

I ruffled her hair. I'd decided that braids weren't really necessary after it took about an hour and three combs to undo all the knots from the one I made yesterday. "I'll get your noodles."

"Thank you."

"So polite!" It figures that me, the craziest dude in Seattle (according to four out of five ex-girlfriends, at least), winds up with Car-lay for a little sis. Not that I'm complaining. She's pretty freaking adorable, like, all the time. I went into the kitchen and stuck her lunch in the microwave; at least she hadn't wanted to buy anything that required use of a stove. I was still a little… bachelor-cliché-ish when it came to that.

I leaned against the counter, almost knocking over a box of what looked like kitchen supplies that I would probably never use. I hadn't exactly finished unpacking yet. I did the important stuff first (Carls' bed, the TV, the computer, anything resembling technology), but everything else was sort of… languishing in convenient boxes. I made a mental note to get on that. (Maybe I should think about transferring my mental notes into _actual _notes; my mental inbox was getting pretty cluttered.)

_Ring! _

_Ring!_

"Ah, phone!" I batted boxes away in an attempt to remember where I left my Pear-phone. Over by the knives? Wait, was I even allowed to have knives in a house with a small child? Were there people who came to check out that? What if Carly accidentally stabbed herself in the throat?! What if _I _accidentally stabbed myself in the throat?! Oh my God, Dad was _totally _suing the chiz out of me!

"Spencer!" Carly yelled. I looked up. She was clutching my Pear-phone tightly in her hand while it rung. "It was on the couch."

"Oh," I said. "I knew that. I was testing you."

She laughed. I jogged over and flipped the phone open in a suave, debonair sort of way. I _am _like a spy; suave and debonair are in the job description. "What goes on?"

"Spencer! Dude, you gotta get over here!"

"Where's here?" I asked, watching the episode of Girly Cow on TV out of the corner of my eye. "Kinda busy, Socko."

His voice went low. "Oh yeah, the kid."

"Carly. She has a name. I happen to think it's kinda nice."

"I'm not a fan of Carly," Socko mused. "I think I'll call her Vanessa."

"Ooookay then." Vanessa? "What did you wanna tell me?"

"I got Gretchen over. We're going to a party later. Wanna come?"

"Well gee let me think about no not really. Unless you want me to bring Carly along. Which I don't think she would enjoy seeing as she's a young child who needs sleep sometimes."

"Get a babysitter," Socko suggested.

"Dude! I've had her for, like, two days. I can't get a _babysitter. _I don't even know any babysitters."

"Party pooper," he said, obviously not mad. "Whatever. So, what do you think we're doing o—"

"_Spencer._"

"Huh?" Who was that? I didn't have any poltergeist last time I checked. I glanced down to see who was tugging on my pants. Oh, maybe it's Carls. "Hold on, Socko." He kept babbling in my ear; I tossed the phone onto the couch cushions and bent down. "Whatcha need?"

Carly frowned, tugging on her hair. "The noodles," she whispered. "They're done and it's too high for me to get. I'm sorry."

Was that it? "No prob-lemo," I said, grabbing the phone. "Gotta go, Socks. I'm needed for a noodle emergency."

"I have that problem a lot."

"Don't I know it. Bye." I slammed the phone close, tossed it into the couch again like a ninja, and hopped myself over to the microwave. Carly followed me anxiously. "Worried about your noodles? Don't worry, I think they'll live."

"Sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean for you to hang up the phone."

I shrugged, grabbing the noodles and putting them on the table for her. "No big dealio. Socko talks too much anyway."

"Sorry," she said again. Jeez, why's she so sorry? She didn't _do _anything. Oh, Car-lay. Such a silly goose.

"You want some Peppy Cola?" I asked, watching her clamber into a chair. Kids are so small and cute. "That's one of the few things I _never _run out of."

Carly looked over at me, then started climbing down from her chair. Wait, what? Did I do something wrong? Is she coming to, like, kill me or something? I winced when she passed me. Huh? What's she— oh. She was getting some Peppy Cola.

"Um, Carls? Helloooo?" I said, knocking her gently on the head as she uncapped the bottle. "What do you think I'm here for? Entertainment?"

She bit her lip with concentration as she poured her drink into a cup. I rolled my eyes and took it from her, finishing the job. "Spencer!" she cried. "I was going to _do _it."

"I know," I said, picking her up and depositing her in her chair again, Peppy Cola in tow. Six-year-old's are surprisingly light creatures. "But you're tiny. And I'm not. And the counter is not. So me and counter, we go together. We're buddies."

Uh-oh. Apparently that was the wrong answer. Chiz! Carly stared dejectedly at her noodles. "Mom said big girls get their own drinks. I'm supposed to get my own lunch too, but you did it first. I'm a big girl. Now you think I'm stupid and little."

…Are you kidding me? "Car-_lay,_" I said decisively, sitting down across from her. She didn't look at me. "Kiddo, you're six. That means I have to get you stuff, 'cause if you do it, you could… hurt yourself."

This time she did look at me. "You hurt yourself sometimes but you're allowed to get stuff," she accused.

This would be why I was not a kindergarten teacher. Because child-logic surpasses mine in every way. "I know," I scrambled, "but that's different. And, uh, Mom was kind of wrong. You're not stupid and little. Definitely not stupid. Whooo spelled 'platypus' right on her last spelling test?"

Carly frowned. "I read it in a book one time."

I poked her cheek. "Doesn't matter! 'Cause Carly Shay, that girl's got so much brain I'm surprised her head hasn't exploded." Oh please be the right answer.

It seemed that it was. Carly giggled. "That's messy. I don't like messes, I have to clean them up."

"Then lets not make any messes!" I grinned and jumped up. Unfortunately, the grin was purely for Carls' benefit. Which I hate, 'cause faking smiles is for losers.

I was so calling Dad. What was this chiz? 'Big girls get their own drinks.' 'Big girls get their own lunch.' 'I have to clean messes up.' Okay, I'm a twenty-year-old guy and even _I _think that's a little off. What's _up_ with Mom?

Where _was _Mom?

"Spencer?" Carly called.

Right, kid in the room. Introspective inner monologue was for when I was alone. Or drunk. Either one. "Yeah?" I called back.

She took a bite full of noodles, then gave me a wide-eyed glance. Woah, she's like a deer. "I have to take a test tomorrow at school. Will you help me get ready?"

Oh. Right. She has school. First grade.

Thiiis suddenly got a lot harder.


End file.
